


broken type pieces and open window blinds

by goreds



Series: but, as long as you keep grabbing me and kissing me, what the hell do I care? [1]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M, west wing-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25009066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goreds/pseuds/goreds
Summary: Robert Townsend, Press Secretary to President Washington, has someone not quite new in his Briefing Room. He doesn't quite know what to do with this information.
Relationships: Robert Townsend/James Rivington
Series: but, as long as you keep grabbing me and kissing me, what the hell do I care? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840351
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

White House Press Secretary Robert Townsend’s day had just gone from bad to worse. There was a new reporter in the Briefing Room, but he wasn’t new to Robert, just the rest of the pool, who had tittered at the reporter’s first, inflammatory question. Of course, they would all be inflammatory, because this was James Rivington, of the _Federalist Gazette_.

Robert had protested the _Gazette_ getting a chair in the room, knowing Rivington’s reputation from a shared past in New York, that Robert would rather not reflect on while in the middle of a press briefing.

But needless to say, James, as Robert had once called him, was an infuriating human being and an even better reporter.

“Excuse me, Robert, but are you going to answer the question?” Rivington is smiling at him, and Robert suddenly realizes he is staring at him like a deer in headlights.

Robert tries to recover. “Insinuating that President Washington would ever say that is a ridiculous accusation.”

“I only asked if the President had expressed a disinterest in women’s softball. I wouldn’t call that an accusation--”

“Uh-huh. Well, it’s a ridiculous question, unbefitting the candor of the room.” The room titters once more. Oh, this isn’t good.

“It’s not ridiculous if the President is dismissing an entire, much-beloved sport, with plenty of fans.” Rivington is still smiling.

“It’s trivial, then. And that’s all for today. Say hello to the newest member of your group, everybody.” Robert steps down from the podium, heading straight for his office. Abe Woodhull, the Deputy Communications Director, is waiting for him.

“That was a great show out there today.” Abe sounds almost...pleased.

“Please leave.”

“No, seriously, what does New Guy have on you?”

“You don’t need to know that. I don’t want you to know that.”

“So, it’s bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Should I tell Alex? Is this something that’s gonna bother us?”

“Not if I shut it down.”

Ben Tallmadge, the Deputy Chief of Staff, walks in, frowning. “That was a helluva show.”

“I told him it was a _great_ show!” Abe protests.

“Well, you’re wrong, and I’m right.” Ben makes a face at Abe, which Abe reflects back.

Robert looks at the two childhood friends and despairs. They’d be at this all day if he lets them. So, he doesn’t. “Please get out.”

Ben looks up at him, surprised. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m great, I am fabulous, Ben. I just got humiliated because of the New Guy. I’m just peachy.”

“Heard. We’ll get out of your hair.” Ben pulls Abe out of the room, and Robert closes the door behind them.

Robert picks up a familiar tchotchke from his desk and throws it on the floor, breaking it in two. He leans down over it. A ceramic block, like from an old printing press typeset, with the letter R embossed on it. He grasps at the two pieces, putting them together, berating himself under his breath. For a moment, he’s almost in another place and another time. He feels dizzy and goes to his desk chair, plopping himself down in it, still holding the broken _R_ type piece.

_“You’re too good for your own good_ , _”_ he hears in the back of his head. Something _someone_ said years ago to him, before pressing the little block into his hand and...and. Robert doesn’t want to remember that.

But he hears another thing. His response. “ _That doesn’t make any sense.”_ A soft laugh from the older, larger man...no. Not going to go there.

Robert looks at the broken _R_ type in his hand, which has put a little broken _R_ imprint into the palm of his hand. Robert stands up, buttons his jacket, and walks out of his office, straight to the Briefing Room.

Rivington is waiting for him because of course he is. “Robert! Sorry about earlier. Have to prove myself in front of my new friends, and all.”

“And you thought you’d do that by referencing women’s softball?”

“Sports fans are a very powerful voting bloc.”

“Follow. Me.” Robert turns around and walks straight back to his office, not turning around to see if Rivington is following him. But once he reaches his office, Rivington is there, too. “Sit down.” Robert tries not to slam the door, but the doors in the West Wing are heavy, and the door slams anyway.

“You seem pissy.” Rivington actually looks concerned, which startles Robert.

Robert wants to yell at Rivington, but all he can do is place the broken _R_ type on the little side table beside the man.

Rivington picks up the two pieces, a wistful, faraway look dawning on his face. “You kept it. You broke it, but admittedly, you kept it--”

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I only went on a little trip--”

“Around the world. To do nothing but drink and play and be your absurd little self. And then you show up in _my_ briefing room and ask an irrelevant question.”

“You’re just mad because I startled you.”

“I’m mad that you think you can just waltz in here and--”

But Rivington leaps up and Robert is reminded of just how much the man can loom, can tower over him. “I’m a journalist, this is my job. You approved my press pass.”

“Actually, Alex did that, I protested highly your being included in the room.”

“Too bad you don’t have a modicum of power here.” And Rivington almost sneers at him, and Robert doesn’t know if he wants to smack him or embrace him. Because he’s right, of course he’s right. Robert hates being the mere spokesperson for the White House; he’d much rather counsel the President and write speeches, but he’s well-spoken and even-tempered and Abe and Alex are firecrackers.

But boy, he feels like a firecracker right now. “I do not know whether I should smack you or--”

“Kiss me?” Rivington leans down, getting closer to Robert’s face.

“Shut up, James.”

“Oh, so it’s James now.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“You just said you were mad at me.”

“Listen to my sentence structure, I said I was mad at what you _did_ , not mad at you, personally.” Robert turns his face down, refusing to make eye contact with the man.

Rivington, oh, dash it all, _James_ , holds up the broken type piece. “You want me to keep one piece, and you to keep the other, like a best friends forever puzzle piece necklace?”

“That was extremely specific.”

“I wrote copy for Claire’s once.”

“Truly, you’ve lived a fascinating life.”

“We both have.” James’s voice has a tinge of sadness in it.

Robert looks back up at him. James’s hair, formerly gray with patches of brown, has gone shock white, and while he’s always fresh-faced, his wrinkles are fully present now. Robert swallows, hard, a knot growing in the back of his throat. He knows what he wants to say, but he doesn’t say anything.

So, James does. “You missed me.”

“No, I did not, I would not--” But before Robert can continue that thought, James, gentle if boisterous giant he is, places a hand on Robert’s shoulder and tilts Robert’s face upwards with his other hand, and before Robert can protest or make sure the blinds to his office windows are closed, he finds himself kissing James. It feels like the night James gave him the type piece all over again. But before he realizes what he’s doing, he shoves James off of him, slamming the man against the door. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?” James just smiles at him, before gently pushing Robert forward, opening the door, and leaving.

Robert breathes heavily, before realizing there’s something James placed into his hand during their embrace. He looks at it: the top of the _R_ , one half of the type piece. He looks out the door to see James holding up the other piece. “A token,” he says, far louder than he needs to be.

Robert knows this is going to go on and on, as long as he’s Press Secretary and James is a reporter.

So, for the next three years, at least. There’s part of Robert that wants to vanish.

And there’s part of him that wishes he’d just kissed James back. 


	2. Lockdown

Someone fired on the West Wing, that’s all they know.

To be more exact, someone fired on the _press room_. Robert’s press room. He’s equal parts nervous, furious, and horrified. Why the press room? Why him?

But he wasn’t in the press room at the time. He was in Ben’s office, and now he’s stuck in Ben’s office, while they wait out the lockdown. Ben is on the phone. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

Robert shoots Ben an angry look. This is not helpful. “Who was in the press room?” he hisses.

Ben shushes him with a wave of the hand. “Thank you.” Ben hangs up the phone, firmly. A little too firmly. “Abe’s in there. He’s fine.”

Now the question Robert doesn’t want to ask, for fear it will both give away too much and have an answer he does not want to hear. “Who else?”

“Only James Rivington. He was here late, filing a story. I can’t believe that man does any actual work.”

_He does_. Robert wants to snap that to what is quickly feeling like an insolent Ben, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“The lockdown should be over soon.”

Robert gives a non-committal nod.

“And we’re stuck together, so we might as well talk. Unless you’re feeling surly.”

“Someone just fired on my briefing room. Other than that, I’m fine.”

“Rivington’s in there,” Ben says, and a twinkle appears in his eye.

Robert fidgets. Ben knows something, of course he knows something, Ben watches, Ben’s smart, Ben’s observant. Which is more than he can say for Abe.

* * *

“Do you know where Robert is?” James knows his voice is shaking, but he supposes he can blame it on being _shot at_ if interrogated by Abe about the two of them.

But this is Abe Woodhull, insipid speechwriter. “No,” is all he says.

“Well,” and James very much tries not to lose his patience, “Maybe one of _them_ would know,” and he indicates the Secret Service agents who just got off the phone.

“Uh, sure.” Abe doesn’t even give James a weird look. “Hey, you know where Townsend is?” He chucks the question at one of the agents.

The agent stares at him blankly. “He’s with Mr. Tallmadge.”

Abe gives a mock salute to the agent and turns back to James. “See, he’s fine. He’s with Benny boy. What do you care anyway? He hates you, you seem to hate the rest of us--”

“I’d hate to see you up there tomorrow and all the other days, that’s why.” James glares down at Abe, but Abe doesn’t back down, despite their difference in height, and the fact that James is trying to be very menacing right now.

“Why, because you’d finally get some pushback?”

“You don’t watch the briefings, do you?”

“I hear about them.”

“You do a really sparkling job as the Deputy Communications Director, Mr. Woodhull.” James goes back to pecking at the computer’s keyboard, although he can’t really _think_ to write anything in order to file his story. He needs to see Robert. He needs to know he’s safe.

“So, we shoot anybody?” Abe is talking to the Secret Service agent.

James makes the executive decision to ignore him.

* * *

“Are they going to let us go anytime soon?” Robert is feeling increasingly uncomfortable under Ben’s gaze. Ben just smiles.

“Gives us some time to catch up.”

“About what? We work side by side every day.”

“Anybody new in your life?”

“No.”

“How’s your dad?”

“Fine.”

“You feeling okay?”

“Just a moment ago, you thought I was feeling surly. Now you want to know if I’m feeling okay?”

“I’m just trying to make conversation, you close-to-the-chest bastard.”

“I’m feeling better every moment. I’ll feel marvelous once they get us out of here.”

Ben runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, so will I.”

“You worried about Abe?”

“Abe’ll be fine. He’s not used to getting shot at, but he’ll be fine. He bounces back. Man’s like rubber. Like a rubber band.” Ben smiles to himself. Then, he turns the smile to Robert, although Robert notes that the smile doesn’t reach Ben’s eyes. “You worried about Rivington?”

“You seem to have an obsession with James Rivington today.”

“He’s one of your reporters. I’d be worried about one of my reporters.”

“Good thing you’re not press secretary, then. And good thing they’re not ‘my reporters.’” Robert keeps his face as neutral as possible, but he can feel his brow furrowing and by God, he wants this over.

“Not all of them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

But before Ben can finish his sentence, a Secret Service agent mercifully delivers him. “Mr. Tallmadge, Mr. Townsend, you’re good to move freely.”

Robert wants to bolt out of the room, but he instead stands slowly, buttoning his jacket. “See you later, then.”

Robert turns to go and freezes when he does. There’s James, rushing around the corner, looking around in every direction. _Oh, please don’t see me yet, please don’t see me yet._ But God is not in Robert’s corner in this particular moment, because as soon as James sees him, he bolts towards him, moving considerably faster than his age and size should allow. “Rob--”

“Yes, hello, Mr. Rivington. Good to see you’re all right.” Robert gives a small wave. James stops in his tracks and nods. He understands.

“You’re your usual self, Townsend. That’s good. Bullet didn’t rattle you too much.”

“No, not much at all.” Robert gives the smallest of smiles, before turning the corner to go down to his office. He can see James out of the corner of his eye, pointedly not following him. He hears Abe hollering at Ben, because everyone can hear him.

“Tallmadge! It’s not a day at the White House without a little excitement, eh?”

“Abe...” and Robert can’t hear anymore, because he’s in his office, with the door closed, practically shivering where he stands, blood pounding in his ears.

_We dodged bullets, literal and figurative, today._


End file.
